


To the Gold of Frankincense through Myrrh

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, S3 compliant, mention of a car crash, mention of past drug-taking, s3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's imprisonment for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, he's released on licence into Mycroft's care. It's December and when Mycroft asks him what he'd like for Christmas, there's only one answer.</p><p>"John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silver

The morning of Sherlock’s release dawns cold and bright, and his breath hangs in the air as he crosses the scrap of lawn in front of the gatehouse, his feet leaving dark indentations in the stiff, frosted grass. (Size 11, Yves Saint Laurent, leather soles - for those with eyes to see.)

Predictably, there’s a black saloon waiting for him, and the back passenger door swings open. (Mycroft prefers to sit behind the driver. It gives him a sense of control without having to actually drive.) Sherlock gets in, fastens his seatbelt.

“This is getting to be a habit,” Mycroft observes. “Me, rescuing you from incarceration.”

“Yes - and you haven’t got any better at it. Took you two years this time, too.”

Mycroft’s weight shifts minutely (diagnostic of his muscles tensing up). (He’s angry. Offended.) (Good.)

“Have you any idea how long your sentence would have been had I not intervened?”

“No. But I bet you’re dying to tell me.”

Mycroft opens his mouth (a lecture at the ready) but, unaccountably, he changes his mind and offers Sherlock a small, pained smile instead - no more than a twitch of the lips and a brief softening of the eyes. Sherlock doesn’t smile back, and neither of them says another word until Leyhill Open Prison is far behind them.

As ever, it’s Mycroft who breaks the ice.

“So,” he begins, and clears his throat, taking out a small black diary from his jacket pocket and leafing through it. “Christmas?”

(Ah. Of course. It’s December - December the 23rd, to be precise.) Sherlock knows the date, obviously. It’s just that he’s stopped putting dates in any wider context. In prison, it hardly mattered what month it was, let alone what day. It was just another twenty-four hours of tedium. No work, no adventures, no-

Sherlock stares at the road ahead, squinting against the low winter sun that’s splitting the frost into sharp needles of light, calculating the precise moment its warmth will melt the ice away.

“What were you thinking?” Mycroft asks, his voice soft and concerned. “Baker Street? Or, if you prefer, I could order a turkey.”

“You don’t do Christmas,” Sherlock says absently, by default, even as his mind fills with images of log fires and punch, brussel sprouts and Mummy and Daddy. Mary. John. A helicopter. And knowing the game was over.

Mycroft sniffs. “Not usually, no. But this year, I could make an exception. To welcome you back into the world.”

Sherlock can endure many things - name-calling, prison food, death threats in the corridors and worse promises in the showers - but one thing he cannot stand is Mycroft’s pity. He swivels around in his seat, unforgiving.

“John. I want to see John.”

Mycroft grimaces. “Sherlock-”

“I want to see John.”

“He’s out of town at the moment,” Mycroft says brightly. (As if he imagines that will work.)

“Where?”

Mycroft sighs. “Scotland. Just south of Edinburgh. A friend lent them a cottage for the festive season.”

(Ah, yes. Of course. John has friends - plural.) Sherlock still has only one - despite the number of inmates who were eager to ‘share a bit of fun’. John has never once offered to fuck him so hard his ears bleed. (More’s the pity.)

The answer is simple. “I’ll go to Scotland.”

“There’s no point talking about this, is there?” Mycroft asks wearily.

“None.” And Sherlock folds his arms to make that very clear.

Mycroft nods, resigned. “I’ll make some phone calls. We can leave in the morning.”

“We? Who said anything about ‘we’.”

“You have been released into my care. Regrettably, I had to give the Prime Minister my personal assurance I’d keep your murderous impulses in check.”

“Magnussen’s dead.”

Mycroft’s face assumes that all too familiar ‘you’re so stupid’ expression. (Exaggerated blinking. Flared nostrils. An incipient curl of the upper lip.)

“What?”

Mycroft’s smile is a cold one. “Mary Watson is still very much alive.”

 

\------

 

Christmas Eve. London is pulsing with fairy lights, frantic shoppers and Christmas cheer. (It’s hateful.) (Pointless.) (Without John, Christmas - London - is nothing.)

Sherlock stands at the window, waiting impatiently for Mycroft’s car to pull up outside. If he’d been able to deduce the address, he’d have gone to Scotland on his own, but - ever one step ahead - Mycroft’s taken precautions; a night of searching the internet, seeking out potentially useful contacts like Wiggins and Lestrade, has yielded nothing. Even Mike Stamford is nowhere to be found.

When at last the car arrives, Sherlock races down the stairs, but the dangling straps of his overnight bag clatter on the bare wooden treads loudly enough to attract Mrs Hudson’s (unwanted) attention.

“Sherlock! You’re home! And in time for Christmas, too. How wonderful.” Eyes sparkling fondly, she takes a step towards him, arms outstretched. (An embrace is imminent.)

Sherlock dashes past. “Can’t stop, Mrs Hudson. Mycroft’s waiting. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the collapse of Western civilization, would you?”

He’s almost at the front door but as he reaches to open it, he hears a soft, disappointed sound escape her. (Probably facing Christmas on her own.) (Mrs Turner’s usually take her to the Costa del Sol and, going by the state of Speedy’s windows, Mr Chatterjee’s clearly away.)

Sherlock turns back, plants a swift kiss on Mrs Hudson’s cheek and then hurries out. Scotland’s three hundred and sixty one miles away (assuming the A41, A406, M1, M6, M42, M6, A7 route) and that’s just to the border. After that, only Mycroft knows.

Mycroft’s silver-haired driver is annoyingly familiar.

“What’s he doing here?” Sherlock demands.

“And a Merry Christmas to you, too.”

“You’re a convicted murdered,” Mycroft sniffs. “Gregory is a policeman. In the circumstances, his presence seemed a wise precaution.”

“Besides,” Lestrade grins, hands flexing gleefully on the steering wheel. “Never driven a Jag before.”

Sherlock gets in beside him (it’s marginally better than sitting next to Mycroft) and Lestrade pulls away, humming a carol and looking like a kid who still believes in Santa.

Sherlock twists around in his seat and raises an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Got yourself a goldfish?”

Mycroft’s answering smile is unreadably serene. “Gregory volunteered.”

 

———————

 

Lestrade exceeds the speed limit more often than he obeys it - mostly out of sheer joy at the Jaguar’s power, though occasionally at Mycroft’s urging - and yet the journey north still takes far too long. Sherlock tracks the junctions obsessively, weighs up alternate routes, and curses Mycroft for not having commandeered a government jet at the very least, but when the first Scotland & The North sign flashes a luminous blue in their headlights, his stomach flips over so violently he feels sick. Suddenly he’s glad he’ll have time to compose himself before setting eyes on John again. Time, too, to indulge himself in fantasy reunions - smiles, hugs, open-mouthed kisses and tearing upstairs - and time to let bitter reality sink in. It’s been two years. John’s married now. A husband, and a father.

And Sherlock should have told him everything years ago.

 

——————

 

It’s another sixty miles from the border. Thanks to Mycroft’s lamentable map-reading (who’d have guessed this was his Achilles’ heel?) and Lestrade going right instead of left at Galashiels, it takes them another two hours before they spot a signpost to the village.

It’s dark now and there are no street lamps - just a bright sliver of new moon illuminating the rolling, frosted hillsides.

“My old Mum always used to say if you turn your money over when you see a new moon, you’ll be rich,” Lestrade says, leaning forward over the wheel and craning his neck to look up at it.

“You obviously ignored her,” Sherlock says sharply. He’s on edge; he’s allowed to be sharp.

“Of course, she also reckoned it was bad luck to see a new moon through glass,” Lestrade goes on, and yanks the wheel hard left. “The only way to counter that is to spit on it.”

Under the tyres, the texture of the road changes. The relative smoothness of A-road tarmac gives way to the crunch and pitted unevenness of ice-hardened mud and gravel. On the back seat, Mycroft bounces a little, eyebrows raised high in displeased alarm but before he has time to chide Lestrade for his driving, the car comes to a rumbling halt outside a pale, stone cottage overhung by winter-bare trees. Inside, the lights are on, and smoke from chimney is rising in a soft, white curl amongst the jagged branches.

Sherlock swallows. Unbuckles his belt. Dips a hand into his pocket. (Yes. It’s there.)

Mycroft and Lestrade unload suitcases and Harrods’ carriers from the boot. (Trust Mycroft to think of his stomach.) Sherlock wonders what’s in them. (Cake? Port? A fatted goose? Stinking French cheese? All of the above?) With his single, small bag, he feels horribly under-prepared. All he’s brought are the essentials, and part of him wants to run.

Mycroft leads the way, rapping decisively on the porch door. There’s no going back now.

For a long empty moment - in which Sherlock’s stomach refuses to lie still - nothing happens. Somewhere in the distance, a tawny owl hoots, mournful and uncertain; further in the distance still, a second owl answers, its call cool and steady. Sherlock stamps his feet against the cold and tells himself he’s an idiot for ever having let it get to this.

Suddenly, a curtain is drawn back and what was muted light from the window beside the door turns bright enough to cast a slant of yellow-white across the flagstone hard standing. A face looks out. Short, bleached-blond hair. Big eyes. Pink lips. (Mary.) Sherlock sees a flash of recognition when her eyes meet his, then the curtain falls back into place. A moment later, Mary is throwing open the door, eyes round with surprise, mouth stretched into an incredulous, wide smile.

“Oh. My. God!” she gasps, laughing as she takes them in. “It’s the three wise men!”

Lestrade chuckles. “We’ve just driven up from London, on a winter’s night, unannounced. No wisdom here.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mycroft says. “Good evening, Mrs Watson. My apologies for intruding.”

“You’re not intruding,” Mary insists. “It’s lovely to see you - and John’s cooked far too much. As usual.”

When Mycroft still hesitates (waiting for a more formal invitation to join them), Mary reaches out and gives him a reassuring pat on the arm. Sherlock holds his breath - any moment now Mycroft will explode with embarrassment - but he only stiffens slightly and clear his throat.

Meanwhile Mary’s attention has turned to Sherlock. She cocks (jerks) her head to one side as their eyes meet (A challenge. Defiance.) and she holds his gaze. (She’s confident that whatever this visit is about, she can handle it.) “Sherlock.”

“Mary.”

She’s always been hard to read: whereas Irene Adler’s strategy was to be blankly perfect, Mary’s is to let Sherlock see everything, all at once. (She made tomorrow’s bread sauce earlier today. Doesn’t trust John to make it properly. He does almost all of the cooking: she prefers the childcare. She misses her cat. Loves her daughter. Adores her husband.) Her gaze is unflinching and she’s smiling again, closed-lipped but warm-eyed. (Oh! She’s enjoying this. Because there’s something else, something new. Something she knows will hurt.)

“John!” she cries, eyes still locked on Sherlock’s. “Come and see! Your friends are here!”

As soon as John appears - a fine-boned, dark-haired toddler with glittering black eyes in his arms - Sherlock knows what the new thing is. He knows he ought to say something to John (it’s what people do!) but nothing will come. There’s no air in his lungs.

John - softer, older, tired - looks equally stunned.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Mary scolds, making little Come In gestures with a hand. “It’s bloody freezing, and we’ve got a proper log fire on the go inside.”

 

————

 

For dinner, John serves glazed ham and red cabbage with new potatoes and apple sauce on the side. Sherlock tries to eat but there’s too much going on in his head to waste energy on digestion. (Should John be told? Does John already know?) There’s no way to tell: John hasn’t looked at him, or said a single word, and Sherlock’s forced to consider the possibility he’s miscalculated, and that coming here was a mistake.

Distraction from these defeatist thoughts comes when the baby (Jamie) (after Jamie Lee Curtis, her teenage heroine, Mary insists) gets hold of the sauce and plasters herself with it. Her pink cheeks glisten; her hair sticks up in clumps. John goes to fetch a dampened flannel and, with infinite patience, cleans her off, coaxing her cooperation with tickles and games. Sherlock risks a glance. Notices John’s smiles don’t quite reach his eyes and thinks perhaps he should have come, after all. Perhaps he’s exactly where he ought to be. He drinks the wine that John poured him and lets it warm his insides.

There’s trifle for dessert - a big pink and white thing, topped with cherries and sparkle, but it’s far too sweet. It’s cloying on Sherlock’s tongue and the excess of sugar burns his throat. Mycroft (sticking to his diet for once) foregoes consuming any and opts to present gifts instead: Game of Thrones DVDs for Mary (must have been Anthea’s idea - Mycroft doesn’t watch television), a Gladstone bag of Tuscan leather for John and the world’s biggest teddy bear for the child. Clearly, Lestrade got the memo too: he has perfume for Mary and gloves for John. Jamie gets a neon yellow tub of Stickle Bricks.

John flushes at the sight of it all - embarrassed at first, then defensive. He doesn’t have gifts for them because he didn’t know they were coming. A bit of warning would have been nice.

“I didn’t get you anything, either,” Sherlock says, in an effort to help him out. “Not that I ever did. Although, in my defence, this time - prison.”

John doesn’t laugh.

 

———————

 

It’s decided (by Mary) that they must stay at the cottage overnight - tomorrow night too, if Mycroft’s not needed in London. There are two spare rooms; Mycroft and Sherlock can have the twin room on the ground floor and Lestrade the box room in the attic. When Sherlock says he’d rather spend the night on the kitchen floor than sleep with his brother, Lestrade suggests (with interesting speed) that, in that case, they’ll swap.

After dinner, they retire to the sitting room for coffee and liqueurs. Then, whilst Mary’s putting Jamie to bed, John goes to tidy the kitchen, leaving Mycroft and Lestrade to doze, replete, by the fire. Lestrade has half an eye on the telly, and Mycroft half an eye on his Blackberry, but Sherlock wouldn’t want conversation with them even if it were on offer. He gets up from the corner armchair Mary put him in and goes to join John.

He finds him slotting dinner plates into the dishwasher - bending forward from the waist, thighs flexing and cord trousers pulling tight across his backside with each stretch. The sight of him stirs that ache again, the one low in Sherlock’s abdomen, that somehow manages to tug not just at his dick but also at his heart.

All of a sudden, John looks up and catches him staring. He doesn’t speak, just stares back, hard-eyed and distant.

Sherlock clears his throat.

“You look,” he says, because one of them has to say something, “ … well.”

John regards him coolly. “Do I?”

It’s more than Sherlock can bear. “You didn’t visit,” he blurts out. “Two years. You didn’t visit. You didn’t write.”

John shrugs. Picks up another plate, and rinses it under the tap. “You knew I was alive.”

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t get it but the respite doesn’t last.

“Sorry,” he says. Again.

John finds another plate that needs rinsing. “When you came back, I told you I didn’t need to know how you faked your death, I just wanted to know why. You never answered.”

Sherlock knows - but it was too late by then. John had Mary, and Sherlock didn’t know what he knows now. If he’d been less heartbroken at discovering John had moved on, he’d have deduced it: Linguist and Only Child would have stood out from all the other things he saw in Mary.

John picks up a chopping board and scrubs at it fiercely. “You never said why you didn’t let me know you were alive, either.”

“It was … punishment?”

John groans and gives a desperate, exasperated laugh. “It was hell, Sherlock. Hell. Both times.”

He slams the chopping board down and closes the dishwasher door with a bang. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, turning up here - now - but you know what? I don’t want to. You’ll have to sort yourself out. I’m going to bed.”

 

——————

 

Christmas Day is predictably grim. Lestrade gets stuck into potato-peeling and sprout-tailing, then crawls around on the floor with Jamie, pretending to be a tiger one minute and a fire-engine the next. Mary makes Buck’s Fizz and wears a sequinned red top. She smiles a lot and talks too much. Because she’s sure of herself, certain she’s won.

It’s gone eight in the evening before Sherlock and John find themselves alone together - although ‘find’ is a very liberal interpretation of the truth: John’s been doing everything he can to avoid it happening, but when Mary sends him out to fetch more logs for the fire, Sherlock follows him down the narrow, snow-sprinkled garden. When John turns back, his arms full of wood, Sherlock’s waiting for him on the path, blocking his route back to the house, and to his wife and child.

(It’s now or never.) Sherlock takes a deep breath and takes the flash drive from his pocket, holding it out on an upturned palm.

John’s eyes narrow. “What’s that?”

“A Christmas present? From a wise … from a wiser man.”

John’s nostril flare and he rolls his eyes. “You cheapskate. Pretty sure the Three Wise Men brought gold. That’s silver.”

Sherlock decides to risk a smile: John insulting him is always a good sign. Better still, he’s wrong - which means Sherlock can correct him, just as he’s always done.

“Aluminium. It’s a data stick, John. Silver is all very well for the inner circuits, but for the casing, it’s a tad extravagant. Plus, silver is highly conductive, which could result in data corruption-”

“Data corruption, eh?” John interrupts, putting the logs down. His warm fingertips brush Sherlock’s cold palm as he takes the stick, and stars explodes in Sherlock’s heart. (Corruption, indeed.) (Or redemption. It’s hard to tell.)

John turns the stick over in his hand, brow furrowing as he tries to decipher what’s written on it in the dark. Sherlock knows the moment it happens, because John’s eyes snap up again, burning with rage.

“What is this?” he asks through clenched teeth. “I burnt this. I tossed this on the fire at your parents’ place two years ago.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. You didn’t. When you wouldn’t read it, I made a copy-”

“What gave you the right? What made you think … She’s my wife, Sherlock! The mother of my child! I decided it was better not to know.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. You were right. Mary was right. Or, at least, I hope she was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, I’ve really missed this. You with your sodding cheekbones and your gnomic utterances.”

“She said you wouldn’t love her once you’d read it.”

“Yes. I know. I was there. That’s why I didn’t read it.” John stoops down to pick the logs up again, but he doesn’t let go of the data stick. It’s still in his hand, making the job a more difficult one, but it gives Sherlock a sharp little prick of hope.

“ Well,” John says, jaw set and determined, “this going the same place as your fake one: on the fire.”

“Don’t.” Sherlock reaches out a hand to grab John’s arm, but drops it again. (Trying to force John to do anything never works.) “Please, John,” he says softly. “I need you to read it.”

“Why? Why should I?”

Words fail. Sherlock shakes his head. “Please,” he whispers, then flees, back towards the house, before John can ask any more.

Because giving the stick to John, begging him to look at its contents, is a gamble. The biggest of Sherlock’s life.

When John’s read it, he may no longer love Mary but he’ll have questions - and after Sherlock answers them, John may not think much of him any more either.


	2. Bitter

Sherlock doesn’t sleep. The bed is comfortable enough, the room warm, but his whole future hangs in the balance. He has no idea whether John looked at the data stick last night, or if he plans to do so later today - and Sherlock doesn’t like not knowing. He doesn’t like waiting either and, at half past five, he gets up. The stairs creak beneath his bare feet as he makes his way down to the bathroom and, as he opens the door, he hears Jamie start crying - the endless, grizzling drone of a child who needs more sleep. Sherlock darts into the bathroom, just as a door further down the hallway opens. He can tell by the uneven footfall that it’s John who’s got up to see to her, and he’d rather not face him yet. The next time they’re alone together, Sherlock wants to be sure John knows - and that he knows all of it.

 

———————

 

Jamie is fractious all day, a development for which John clearly blames Sherlock. Mid-afternoon, Mycroft manages to escape the screaming by retreating to his bedroom on the pretext of work but John won’t let Sherlock off that easily.

“You woke her,” he says, folding his arms. “Your mess. You fix it.”

Sherlock looks at the child in utter bewilderment. It can’t talk properly, it can’t read and he’s highly doubtful it’s interested in murder. What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

“We’ll take her for a walk,” Lestrade offers, coming to his rescue. (He has the look of the cat that got the cream, a sleepy smile lurking at the corners of his mouth and warming his already warm eyes.)

“Oh, God, bless you!” Mary cries, and she presses her hands together and closes her eyes, as if at prayer. “I’ll get her ready.”

A little plaid coat is produced - preposterously small - then boots, and gloves and a hat. John drags a pushchair out from under the stairs, knocking over wellington boots and empty suitcases. As Jamie is strapped into it, she drums her heels against the footrest in delight. “Out! Walk! Out!”

“You’ve brought her up all wrong,” Sherlock mutters darkly at John as he winds his scarf about his neck and pulls on his gloves.

“Like you’re an expert. Phone if there’s a problem. I want her back here in an hour. And don’t go far.”

Sherlock has no wish to go at all.

 

—————————

 

Jamie’s excited but incomprehensible jabbering starts to slow as they reach the bottom of the hill. By the time Lestrade’s trundled her twice around the ice-fringed duck pond, she’s fast asleep, head lolling at an angle that, in adults, would be indicative of a broken neck. Lestrade smiles at her fondly (he’s always wanted children, despite his faithless wife) (or possibly because of her) and turns back for home. They’re half-way up the hill again when it starts to snow.

Back at the cottage, all is quiet and John is alone in the sitting room.

“Mary went up for a nap,” he says, when Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow. “She had a disturbed night. Mycroft’s still upstairs.”

Having carefully parked Jamie in the hall, Lestrade strips off his coat and toes off his shoes.

“Suppose I’d better go and see if he needs anything,” he said, wearily, but his weariness is overdone and there’s a sparkle in his eye. He tilts his head in Jamie’s direction. “She looks comfortable enough there. Might as well leave her to sleep.”

John nods once, and Lestrade pads softly upstairs.

Sherlock stands on the threshold of the living room, unsure what to do. He wants to ask John about the data stick but, at the same time, he wants this moment - when everything, even hope, is still possible - to go on forever

“You can come in, you know,” John says, after a while. “It’s warmer in here.”

Obediently, Sherlock steps into the room and from this new position, he can see John’s laptop has made an appearance and is now lying on the coffee table beside him. However, it’s firmly closed and there’s no sign of the data stick. (Has John looked at it? Has he? Has he?) Sherlock can’t bear not knowing and so, as he removes his coat, gloves and scarf, he considers the evidence and sets about making a deduction.

He doesn’t get far. (The set of John’s shoulders could be the result of tiredness or of sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.) (John’s distant manner may simply be residual irritation from earlier-)

“I opened your present.”

Sherlock freezes. (This is it - the talk.) (When everything changes. For good, or ill.)

“So,” John goes on, “my wife’s not just a CIA-trained killer who went freelance and left a trail of bodies across Europe, then?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

If John’s tone were one of anything other than bewildered hurt, Sherlock thinks he could have handled the question, but the implicit accusation of betrayal robs him of the ability to speak. (Because John’s right. It was a betrayal - albeit a well-intentioned one.) Sherlock’s only reply is a helpless little hand gesture that’s woefully inadequate.

“Oh - right,” John says, the edges of his words hardening. “You need me to be clearer - because there’s a whole selection box of goodies in here, isn’t there?” He tosses the data stick into the air and catches it again, fingers snapping audibly against his palm. “Well, let’s start with you not telling me that my wife had worked for Moriarty. The man who put me in a Semtex jacket.

Sherlock shrugs. “He was dead. She was pregnant - and you wanted to try to make it work. For the sake of the baby.”

It’s as if John doesn’t even hear him. “Was she one of the snipers? At the pool?”

“She might have been. She joined his network in 2009. The same year she assumed her Mary Morstan identity.”

John huffs out a mouthful of air. “Oh, great. The woman who’s now my wife could have killed me. Fan-bloody-tastic.” He closes his eyes and Sherlock sees his chest rise and fall with deep breaths as he tries to process this new information. It takes a while. When he opens his eyes again, the little lines around them have deepened. “Okay, let’s get onto the next thing you didn’t tell me - Mary’s time in Serbia. Working for Baron Maupertuis. Another psychopath who wanted to kill you.”

“That may have been mere practicality,” Sherlock says, hurriedly. “Mycroft was tightening the net around Moriarty’s agents in England - but Mary was clever. Her passport was still in her real name so she was able to slip away to Belgrade - where Moriarty’s contact Maupertuis was based. In return for his protection, it was only natural she’d work for him.”

John shakes his head. “Nope. I’m seeing a pattern here. Someone wanted you dead; Mary worked for them.”

“She worked for you,” Sherlock reminds him, risking a joke.

“Exactly,” John says, with a glare, and pauses to make sure it sinks in. It does, and Sherlock squirms. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me Mary wanted you dead from the very start? Before I married her.

“I didn’t know.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “You? Didn’t know? How is that even possible? You know everything.”

“It’s complicated …” Sherlock says, words failing him as he remembers the agony of trying to process the fact that John had moved on. He couldn’t think straight, had to struggle to breathe. “I should have. All the information was there but - in my defence - I was somewhat distracted.” He takes a breath and pulls himself together. (This isn’t over yet.) “I didn’t piece it together until I was on that plane, and Mycroft called me back.”

John’s still angry, still hurt, but mention of the plane causes a subtle change in him. He cocks his head to one side, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

It’s amazing, but the feelings are still there - the despair Sherlock felt at having to leave, of knowing he’d never see John’s beautiful, amazing, expressive face again. That he’d never get the chance to hold him in his arms. He takes a deep breath and exhales it slowly.

“I didn’t tell you. Mycroft’s mission … it was a suicide one. I’d have been dead within six months.”

John’s jaw drops and he gasps. Sitting up straighter, he leans forward, as if any moment he might stand. (Might touch.) “Sherlock!” (Oh god, he’s beautiful like this.)

Sherlock forces himself to go on. “I’d have been fighting on the side of the angels, John. You’ve always wanted me to be a hero.”

“Jesus.” John is shaking his head, mouth pulled tight into a grimace. (Horror. Guilt.)

“Mary couldn’t allow that. You can’t compete with a hero, especially not a dead one - doubly so if you’re someone with a past like Mary’s - so she made sure I didn’t go.”

“You mean Mary was behind that broadcast?” John asks, wide-eyed.

Sherlock nods. “She saved my life. Again. She didn’t want me to die in Eastern Europe any more than she wanted me to die on Magnussen’s office floor. She wanted me to suffer. She’s always wanted me to suffer.”

The light in John’s eyes turns guarded. “Why?”

Looking at him, Sherlock wonders if he’ll have the strength to see it through. The idea of watching John learn to despise him turns his stomach, and yet he knows he has to tell him. He owes John that, at least.

“I was very young,” he begins, in a voice he hardly recognizes himself. “Just out of university. Mycroft wanted me to join the Civil Service like him but the only career that interested me was criminal investigation. Annoyingly, the police wouldn’t have me. The interview panel said I was arrogant, rude and unable to take orders -”

“Fancy that.”

At John’s dry interjection, Sherlock’s heart swells a little - he’s always loved John’s mordant sense of humour, the way John’s not afraid to prick his pomposity without ever trying to score points - and he gives him a small, wistful smile.

“I dabbled in police work on my own. Picked cases from the newspaper and investigated them. One in particular caught my attention: a series of student deaths at King’s College. They’d all taken cocaine - but only the first showed any sign of having been a regular user. The police thought it was death by misadventure - accidental overdose - but I was convinced it was murder. To cut a long story short, I realized Daniel Almeida, visiting professor of Latin American studies from Colombia, was using his academic status to bring cocaine into Britain. His first customer was a bona fide user, but the product was so potent, he overdosed and died. His friends became suspicious, knew the death coincided with Almeida’s arrival - perhaps they even challenged him - because within a week they were all dead.”

John rolls his eyes. “I’m guessing you didn’t go the police.”

Sherlock smiles again: no-one knows him like John.

“I broke into Almeida’s flat in Soho. Found what I thought were the goods. I -” Sherlock swallows. (John will be appalled.) “- I was no stranger to cocaine, John. I knew I could tell if my deduction was right, so I did a line - what I thought was a reasonable sample, guaranteed to produce recognizable results but not enough to seriously impair me …

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John cries, fists clenched with exasperation. “You could have died too.”

“But I didn’t! And I solved the case! It all worked out in the end.”

John snorts out a breath. “Yeah. But what does any of this-”

“Daniel Almeida was Mary’s father.”

John nods slowly, taking it in. “And you got him arrested?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes. “I killed him.”

“You what?”

Sherlock shoots him a pleading look. “It wasn’t part of the plan. It just happened.”

People always think John’s just ordinary, but he’s not. He may not be a genius, but his mind is incisive, agile, and watching his face, Sherlock sees the exact moment it homes in on the fact that Sherlock’s ashamed.

“How did it just happen’ ?”

Sherlock clasps his hands in front of him and hangs his head, suddenly painfully aware that he’s standing and John’s sitting. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable - like being in the headmaster’s office at school.

“I was excited, fizzing with energy and so much confidence that I didn’t realize Almeida had come home until he confronted me in his study. He thought I was a burglar. Threatened to call the police. I scoffed. Told him what I knew. He must have assumed the police were on their way because he rushed out of the house and into his car. I didn’t want him to get away - he might have headed straight for the airport and the first plane to Bogota - so I took off after him. In the Fiesta Mycroft had bought me for my birthday. I was right behind him when he took a sudden left turn down a No Entry. I wasn’t expecting it. I ploughed into him. His car hit a lamp-post …” Sherlock breaks off, overcome.

There’s a long silence, then the sound of springs creaking. (John’s getting to his feet.) Sherlock jerks his head up in alarm.

He’s expecting to see revulsion in John’s eyes, but all that’s there is compassion.

“It was an accident,” John says.

“Mary doesn’t see it that way.” Sherlock gives a bitter little laugh. “Nor did Mycroft. He sold the Fiesta. Put me into rehab.”

The disappointment has crept back onto John’s face. “You could have told me, you know. Before now.”

“No. I couldn’t. You’re a doctor. You don’t even approve of smoking. I thought …”

“You’re an idiot.” John walks over to the fire and gives it a poke, sending red-orange embers spiralling up into the black chimney. He watches them for a moment, then turns back, something else in his eyes and Sherlock’s stomach does an unpleasant flip. (Confessions about wrong-doing are bad enough.)

“You’re taking a risk, aren’t you?” John asks. “Turning up here? For all you know, Mary’s planning to pour cyanide over your cornflakes.

Feigning composure, Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “There’s no risk of that. She didn’t know I was coming and she has a two-year old - a two-year old to whom she’s completely devoted, by the way. Her clothes are expensive, but there are little stains all over them, ones she hasn’t tried to protect them from. Toddlers are famous for getting into everything and putting things in their mouths. She wouldn’t have taken the risk of having poison in the house. And besides, she doesn’t want to kill me. Not any more.”

John raises an eyebrow. “She’s forgiven you?”

“She thinks death’s too good for me.”

“What?”

“She wants me to suffer.”

“She wants to burn the heart out of you?” John murmurs, as he goes back to the settee and flops down. “Now, who does that remind me of?”

“Somehow she found out I hadn’t really jumped from Bart’s roof. She knew I’d return to London eventually. That I’d want to - that we’d resume our friendship. That’s why she sought you out. Why she went to work for you.”

John flinches. “I thought she loved me,” he says hoarsely. “After all I’d been through … “ He shakes his head.

Sherlock sits down beside him and edges closer. “She did. She does. She may have played you at the start, but you heard her in Leinster Gardens. She lost the game. She loves you. It’s what people do …” It’s on the tip of his tongue to add ‘if they spend any time with you’ but his courage fails. “Mary considered herself lucky. She had the best of both worlds.”

“What?”

“You’d asked her to marry you and I was still in your life. She could have her revenge on me on an almost daily basis. Make me watch you play happy families. See all the things I couldn’t have. That’s why she gave us the data stick. She knew you’d never look at it - with a child on the way, you had too much to lose. But she knew I would, but I’d never tell you the contents because I had too much to lose. What happened - it may have been an accident but it doesn’t exactly paint me in a heroic light, does it?”

Sherlock braces himself for John to agree, but John’s looking at him strangely.

“You don’t want a wife and children,” he says slowly.

Sherlock’s heart stops, starts up again and begins to race. For a moment he thinks of running - there’s so much adrenalin in his system, he’s sure he could make it to the main road before John got as far as the door, but logic tells him that’s not what he wants. He wouldn’t have come here in the first place, if it were. He lets his gaze meet John’s.

“No,” he says, softly.

John gapes. “You mean ..? You …?” He points a finger, first at Sherlock, then at himself. “Me?”

“Yes.”

John blinks. Blinks again. Then he smiles - one of those little, closed mouth smiles you smile when you’re not sure you should be smiling at all, but you just can’t help yourself, and Sherlock thinks his heart may well burst.

Unable to maintain eye contact, John averts his gaze and swallows. “Right. So … What do we do now?”

Sherlock has no idea. When he first conceived the notion of coming here, he expected it all to go very differently. John was supposed to be delighted to see him from the start. To have thrown his arms around Sherlock and kiss him full on the mouth in front of everyone. Reality has been rather different, and Sherlock’s been too anxious to rework his plans.

A cough behind them makes them both jump.

“What happens next,” Mycroft says, walking into the room and going to stand by the fire, “rather depends on you, John. If you wish, I can have Mary arrested and charged this very evening. In which case, she will be taken to Edinburgh, held overnight, and flown down to London in the morning. Charged with wasting police time, conspiracy, multiple murders, attempted murder …”

John gets to his feet. “What about Jamie?”

“She will join her mother in a Mother and Baby unit,” Mycroft tells him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“No!” John’s cry is so vehement, it brings Sherlock to his feet too.

Meanwhile, Mycroft is regarding John as if he were from some alien species whose motivations and feelings are quite beyond him.

“Why would that bother you?” he asks. “The child isn’t yours.”

Sherlock can’t believe his ears. People says he’s insensitive! He can’t believe Mycroft could show such callous disregard for John’s feelings.

But John is far from heart-broken. Instead he bristles, squaring his shoulders and staring Mycroft straight in the eye. “I know,” he says, his voice unnervingly calm. “Contrary to what you might think, Mycroft, I’m not stupid. Mary and I both have blue eyes. Statistically, we’d be very unlikely to have a brown-eyed daughter.” Glancing towards the doorway, he looks fondly look at Jamie in her pushchair, where she’s still sleeping peacefully. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

“John … “ Sherlock is stunned. It’s the last reaction he expected. John really is the bravest and kindest and wisest human being he’s ever known.

“Apologies,” Mycroft says swiftly, talking over him. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. I am in your hands, John.”

John presses his lips together and looks down at his feet.“What are my options?”

“Well,” Mycroft says (in that charmingly sweet tone that always indicates danger), “Mrs Watson could stay here, with you, and we three could melt away into the night. Of course, in that case, I could never allow you to see my brother again.”

“It’s not your decision,” Sherlock protests, but John clearly thinks it is, because a (rather gratifying) look of panic sweeps across his face.

“Or?”

“Or,” Mycroft purrs, “she and the child could be allowed to leave the country. Provided she never steps foot in this country again. As I said, the decision is yours.”

“You mean, I’d never-”

“This is unfair,” Sherlock interrupts, feeling quite panicked himself. (John is good, and honourable. He’d never dream of abandoning a child.) “John needs time-”

“No,” John says, raising his chin. “No. I don’t.”

“John!” Sherlock says urgently, desperately (because - oh God, he’s going to stay with Mary, for the sake of a child who isn’t even his). “Really, you don’t have to choose right this minute. You need to think it over. Weigh up the advantages and disadvantages. Be-”

John looks up, his gaze travelling from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth and back again.

“ - logical about …”

There’s moisture in John’s eyes now. (Tears.)

“ … it,” Sherlock finishes, lamely.

John’s lips quiver, as if he’s about to cry but instead he smiles. “You,” he says. “I choose you.”

It’s not Sherlock’s finest hour. He ought to express gratitude, pleasure, absolute unflinching reciprocity, but - though he opens his mouth to try - he finds himself unable to speak.

John’s smile broadens for moment, but when he speaks again, turning to Mycroft, he’s steely and resolute.

“I’m not giving up Sherlock, but I’m not giving up my daughter either. I want regular contact with her and I want to support her.”

The sound of movement out in the hall distracts Mycroft for a moment but he ignores it and nods. “Subject to certain conditions, I am not opposed to that. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” Mary asks, walking in through the open door.

————-

Mary’s incredulous at first, then angry. She scoffs, threatens and sneers - until Mycroft makes the reality of her situation very clear to her.

“If you come near my brother or Doctor Watson again, your daughter will be taken away from you. If anything should happen to my brother or Doctor Watson, your daughter will be taken away from you.”

Disturbed by the sound of raised voices, out in the hallway, Jamie starts to cry. John hurries out to comfort her, but Jamie will have none of it, going stiff in his arms and straining her arms towards Mary, screaming, red-faced, for Mummy. Mary gathers her up, and clutches her to her breast.

“You’ll never see her again,” she tells John, eyes narrowed, teeth bared.

Mycroft sighs. (He does so hate repeating himself.) “If you refuse to grant Doctor Watson reasonable access,” he says, examining his nails, “your daughter will be taken away from you.”

Cornered, Mary turns vicious and Sherlock gets a glimpse of how coldly cruel she must have been as an assassin as she rounds on John. “Why would you care? Why would you want contact with James Moriarty’s daughter?” At John’s stricken gasp, she laughs nastily. “Yes, that’s right - Jamie is his child. You were always so careful with your condoms and your spermicides - a typical bloody doctor! I wanted your child, John, but you wouldn’t let me. You said it wasn’t the right time, that you were too busy. With him,” she adds, jabbing a furious finger in Sherlock’s direction.

“So you decided to get yourself pregnant,” Sherlock says, pressing his hands together as the pieces in his mind fall finally into place. “You’d been Moriarty’s confidante … he was megalomaniac enough to have had sperm frozen in the hope of populating the world with more of his kind …”

“That’s not why I did it,” Mary snarls.

“No,” Sherlock agrees, almost impressed. “You did it because it was another way to hurt me. When were you planning to tell me that John was unwittingly raising the child of the man who’d tried to destroy me?”

“Every day of your life.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile. “Clever. But you always were, Mary. Cleverer than Moriarty, certainly. He thought the way to burn the heart out of me was to attack my reputation, my career.” He glances at John and lets his smile grow wider.

“I’ll go into hiding,” Mary declares. “You’ll never find me. Or Jamie.”

John frowns, obviously distressed at the possibility, but he’s reckoned without Mycroft - Mycroft who now smiles the smile of a man with a whole deck of aces up his sleeve.

“I took the precaution of choosing your midwife,” he says. “Your daughter was chipped within hours of her birth. There’s a little transmitter, right near her heart. No reputable surgeon will remove it without my say-so. Of course, you could take you chances with some grubby little back-street merchant but …” He lets his voice trail off, but his meaning is clear.

Mary knows when she’s beaten and, the battle lost, she insists on leaving at once, claiming she can’t bear the sight of her own husband siding with the men who’d conspired against her. Mycroft makes the necessary phone calls and Mary packs a single case. She throws it with a vicious thud into the boot of the Jag. John doesn’t say a word, just stands watching as she belts herself and Jamie into the back seats. His expression is determinedly, painfully blank. Sherlock stands beside him: it’s the least he can do.

Despite the bitter chill of the night, the snow falling on the shoulders of his cardigan and his hair, John remains there, standing stiffly to attention outside the cottage, until Mycroft’s black Jaguar has crunched down the snowy lane and is well out of sight. Even when it’s gone, he seems reluctant to move.

“John,” Sherlock says, softly. “She’s gone. Let’s go inside.”

John blinks a couple of times, as if waking from a dream. There are snowflakes on his eyelashes, a little white cap of them on his head, but they’re dislodged when he meets Sherlock’s gaze and nods. “Good plan. I’m frozen.”


	3. Divine

They go inside and John adds more fuel to the fire. When it’s roaring and bright, he stands staring into the leaping flames but he still looks cold and Sherlock has never felt so useless in his life.

“I’ll make some tea-”

“I don’t want tea.”

“Some brandy, then. You’re in shock.”

“I am not in shock,” John says, pacing away to the far end of the room. “And I don’t want any damn brandy.”

“Then what do you want?” (There must be something - something to comfort him.)

John spins around, eyes ablaze, and marches back, until he’s standing directly in front of Sherlock. “I want all this to mean something, you cock! For it not to have been for nothing!” And with that, he grabs the front of Sherlock’s shirt in both hands and yanks him close, pushing up onto the balls of his feet to kiss Sherlock hard on the mouth.

As soon as their lips touch, Sherlock’s grateful for the awful charade he went through with Janine: at least he has some idea of what he’s supposed to be doing. But whereas her kisses were soft little teases, John kisses as though his life depends on it, as if he’s dying of thirst and only drinking down Sherlock will save him. The ferocity of his mouth and tongue stirs something ravenous low in Sherlock pelvis. His heart thumps. His penis thickens, and his balls feel heavy. John wants him, wants him desperately and before Sherlock knows what he’s doing, he’s cupping the back of John’s head with one hand and using the other hand to grasp one of John buttocks so that he can pull him up hard against him. The pressure of John’s body is all it takes to make Sherlock harder still. He drops his head to kiss the side of John’s neck, and tongues the skin under his jaw, revelling in the scrape of his stubble and sucking on the perfect, salty taste of him. This is nothing like Sherlock expected. He thought he’d have to struggle to keep up, that John would need to coax and guide him, but instead he knows exactly what he wants, exactly how to get it, and a wave of heady, exultant excitement goes through him. He feels powerful, wild and recklessly confident. Tightening his fingers in John’s hair, he pulls his head to one side and sinks his teeth into the flesh of his neck.

John jerks against his hold, muscles stiffening at if he means to fight him - but a second later, he subsides again, hands on Sherlock’s backside, hips grinding into him. The movement tugs the stiff line of Sherlock’s flies from side to side across his straining erection, and Sherlock gasps, suddenly weak at the knees. His skin is tingling and he’s giddy with the need to thrust his hips into John and keep thrusting.

He takes John’s face in both hands, and kisses him again. John’s mouth opens up and his tongue brushes Sherlock’s. In the long, lonely nights in prison - in the achingly bitter months after John’s marriage - Sherlock could only dream of doing this but now it’s real.

_Real._

The thought brings Sherlock up short, and he pulls away. (This can’t be right - not by ordinary, decent human standards. Not when John’s just lost his wife and child.) (No, it must definitely fall into the realm of A Lot Not Good. John’s judgement’s bound to be off - and he was never the most luminous of thinkers to start with. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.) (John’s Not Gay. This is grief, misery, shock.)

“John,” Sherlock begins, alarmed to find that reining himself in so abruptly has made him tremble with unsatisfied lust. “This is too soon. We should -” He swallows, thickly. “- wait.”

“No,” John growls and kisses him again. “Here. Now.”

Over the years, so many people have told Sherlock he’s not human, he’s almost come to believe it but the press of John’s lips and the willing heat of him prove that, on the contrary, he’s all _too_ human; he’s weak and selfish, and driven by needs he doesn’t want to control after so many years of unspoken longing.

“Here? Are you sure?” Sherlock doesn’t care less where it happens but he wants John to be comfortable.

“I’m not having you shag me in any bed Mary’s slept in. The sofa. It’s big enough. Sherlock? Are you listening?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock realizes he got lost at ‘you shag me’, his body too eagerly anticipating how that might feel for him to process the rest of what John was saying. With John looking up at him expectantly, wet-lipped and flushed, he has a feeling it might be important and quickly backtracks quickly through his words.

“Sofa,” he agrees as the suggestion registers. “Big enough. Yes.”

“Sherlock Holmes having trouble with sentences,” John marvels in a voice that’s rough as gravel. “There’s something you don’t hear every day.”

“It’s not every day you get the thing you’ve always wanted,” Sherlock whispers against his ear.

“Must be Christmas,” John rumbles back.

Sherlock’s not sure who propels whom towards the sofa, though he suspects it was John when he ends up on his back with John on top of him, straddling his thighs: he had a rather different position in mind. His suspicions are confirmed when John tears frantically at his shirt buttons and opens his flies.

“Have you got any lube?” John pants, lowering his head to kiss the skin he’s exposed - Sherlock’s chest, his stomach and lower. Hungry, sucking kisses that pull his blood to the surface and turn his insides molten with want.

The sensation of John’s mouth and tongue moving over him with such obvious intent makes Sherlock’s belly tighten and fills him with such a potent need for John simply to keep going that answering the question seems unnecessary - unwise, even. (Don’t talk, John. Don’t stop.)

John stops. “Well? Have you?” he demands, wild-eyed, tugging at the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers.

“No. Have you?”

“Really wasn’t expecting to need any,” John grunts, and (thank God!) he goes back to kiss-sucking his way down Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock’s higher functions are rapidly deserting him, his awareness of anything beyond John’s mouth on his skin slipping away. His buttocks clench, his pelvis lifts and his hands clutch reflexively at John’s shoulders.

“Kitchen,” he tries, although it comes out as a shapeless kind of groan when John decides to take advantage of the way he’s involuntarily arching to yank his trousers and pants down his thighs. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “There must be some - God!”

Sherlock’s valiant attempt at rational thought and practicality dissolves completely when John prises his erection away from his belly and breathes hot, moist breath over the head.

“John …”

“Shh. I’m improvising,” John murmurs and licks a long, wet stripe up the entire length of Sherlock cock.

“Very … resourceful of you,” Sherlock squeaks as John does it again. It’s no good. He can’t be expected to think now. He lets his head drop back, lost in vibrant, brain-numbing pleasure.

John’s tongue swirls about him, sinuous and wet and, whilst it drags and pushes, sweeps and glides, John keeps a warm hand wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s shaft preventing him from giving in too freely to the impulse to thrust. And then, his other hand tugging softly on Sherlock’s balls, John finally starts to suck.

It’s too much. The pleasure that was building deep in Sherlock’s pelvis simply erupts, and he’s coming into John’s mouth and down his throat. His utter lack of control over it would be horrifying it it weren’t also so intensely sweet. Sherlock’s trembling - no, shaking - a full minute afterwards, and only distantly aware of the fact that John is licking him carefully clean.

“Sorry,” he says, when his brain starts to function again. “Sorry.”

John crawls up his body and grins. “Don’t be a tit. Seeing you come apart like that was utterly bloody fantastic. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder.” And he kisses Sherlock tenderly on the mouth.

Sherlock can smell himself on John’s breath and taste himself on John’s tongue. It ought to be disgusting but instead is making his belly start tickling all over again. He pushes John away, and tries to roll him over: he’s a quick learner, and he’s sure he can reciprocate now he knows how it’s done.

But John will have none of it. He resists every attempt at shifting him.

“No. Not like that,” he says, pulling his jumper and shirt up over his head and tossing them to the floor. “I want to be looking at you the first time you make me come.”

Sherlock feels his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He wraps an arm around John’s shoulder, and shifts them onto their sides. As they adjust their limbs more comfortably, he runs his free hand down John’s chest, and over his waist and hip.

“Like this?”

John nods.

Cautiously, hardly daring to believe it’s actually happening, Sherlock reaches down to unfasten John’s jeans. John pushes up on his elbow to let Sherlock ease them down over his hip and pull his pants out of the way. With John naked now from throat to thighs, Sherlock curls his fingers around the blade of his hip bone, exploring the curve and strength of it for a moment, then flattens his hand out and drags it down over the slight swell of John’s abdomen to where smooth skin gives way to coarse hair and heat. They both exhale heavily as the solid flesh of John’s erection jumps under Sherlock’s palm.

“Tell me what you want,” Sherlock says, smiling into John’s eyes as he wraps a hand around him.

“Slow,” John manages with visible effort. “Firm but slow. I want it to last.”

“Firm but slow,” Sherlock agrees. He tightens his grip a little and gives John an experimental stroke.

John shudders and a little noise - high and nasal - escapes him.

“All right?” Sherlock asks, stroking him again.

“Yeah. Good. Great,” John sighs, and Sherlock feels his body relax, as if confident now he’s in safe hands. “Like that.”

Holding his gaze, Sherlock strokes him once more, marvelling at the velvet soft slide of John’s foreskin over the rigid heat of his shaft. John drags in a breath and bites his lip. Sherlock strokes him again.

“Christ …” John whispers. “ _Christ_ , Sherlock …”

Kissing him, soft and deep, Sherlock keeps stroking, and soon John’s body is juddering; a few more pulls and his breaths turn into short, shallow gasps.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, overcome by emotion, and suddenly John’s hips pump violently into his hand and his eyes go wide. He stills, arches and comes in great sticky pulses into Sherlock’s hand.

(Three minutes, fifteen seconds.) (Probably.) (Does that count as making it last?) Sherlock hardly thinks so.

“Sorry,” he says, kissing John’s closed eyes, his damp forehead, his cheeks. “This really isn’t my area.”

John cracks an eyelid open and gives him a lazy, sated smile. “Then you must be naturally talented,” he says. “Because that was amazing.”

“Really? You think so?”

“ _Yes_ , you dick.”

“But compared with what you did. _God_ …”

John nuzzles into his chest. “I think we’re a few steps away from God. I’ve just left my wife and child for another man.”

Sherlock considers this for a moment, the stinging sensation in his eyes suddenly much, much worse.

“Love is love, John,” he says, meaning it.

John tips his head back to look up at him and raises his eyebrows. “Is that what this is, then? Love? Thought that was a chemical defect found on the losing side?”

Sherlock squirms a bit at having that bit of foolishness tossed back at him, but he snorts derisively at the implication. “This isn’t the losing side.”

John grins. “No. It really isn’t.”

They’re quiet for a while, just luxuriating in each other’s closeness, but after a while John clears his throat and when he speaks, his tone is serious.

“I wanted to visit you. Every day. But I thought it was hopeless, and you’d never said anything-”

“I should have,” Sherlock says quickly, because he won’t let John take all the blame. And besides, it’s true. “I did try - albeit too late. But then I realized I was going to my death and I didn’t want to make it any worse for you.”

“You idiot,” John sighs, shaking his head. “Nothing could have made that worse for me.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, guilt crashing over him once again. “Sorry.”

John shrugs. “It’s all right. I understand now. Why you didn't contact me."

“You do?”

“Yes. Because I thought I could get over you, too. If I just left it long enough,” John says with a rueful smile.

Sherlock cups the side of his face and traces the pad of his thumb over John’s cheekbone.

“I couldn’t do it, either,” he says, voice raw with emotion.

“No,” John breathes and he draws Sherlock down into another kiss. It starts off soft and tender, but rapidly grows more heated, and Sherlock feels his penis stirring back to life. John feels it too and rocks against it.

“As soon as my divorce comes through,” he breaks off the kiss to vow, “the two of us are getting married.”

“Are we?” Sherlock asks, breathless and ready to agree to anything.

“Well, you’re about to deflower me,” John says, shifting onto his back. He kicks his jeans and pants off all the way and pulls Sherlock down on top of him. “Don’t you think you ought to after that?”

John’s spreading his legs and hooking them loosely around Sherlock’s. The invitation is clear. Sherlock smiles, and kisses his forehead.

“As far as I’m concerned, John, I’ve been yours since the day we first met.”

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to rroselavy for the incredibly speedy beta!


End file.
